


30(ish) Candles

by heathenpesticide



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, M/M, OcelhiraWeek2016, One-Sided Attraction, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8780527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathenpesticide/pseuds/heathenpesticide
Summary: Kaz is drunk on his birthday. Ocelot takes advantage.It's a bit late, but here's my submission for Day 2 of Ocelhira week.





	

It's almost unnerving, how easy it is to pretend it's still the Caribbean in 1974. A lot of things are still the same. The whine of hydraulic cranes, the crash of the waves, the bored chatter of idle soldiers, the endless expanse of ocean, the salt-saturated air. Kaz had gone to almost obsessive lengths to specifically achieve this.

There are... _mistakes_ , of course. Can't really replicate the climate. It's cooler here than it was in the Caribbean. Not by much, but enough to make a noticeable difference. It's that time of year that the trade winds have just started blowing in from the southeast, so the heat isn't quite as unforgiving as usual. The breeze gusting off the water is refreshing on his face, he can comfortably wear his infantry jacket and a trench coat without it being unbearable. He finds himself getting cold a lot easier these days anyway.

The truth is, Kaz is a little drunk.

... _A lot_ drunk, actually.

The party was nice. Quaint. Everyone whose birthday fell in May was being celebrated too, so it was convenient to not have to be the center of attention when he'd spent so long being thirty- _ish_ that he really didn't want to be forced to focus on how he was now too close to pushing forty. He went through the motions, did all the trite party rituals expected of him to keep from dwelling on it. He'd even... _bothered_ with blowing out candles on a cake, just to spite Paz's old rebuke of boorish men blowing clouds of cigarette smoke instead - 

_(drinking beer, eating meat, telling tasteless jokes and swapping crude insults about one another's hometowns)_

And then that eerie reflection of _sameness_  was cruelly shattered, eclipsed by the significant impression of _absence_. That old mirth, that playfulness he used to engender that once inspired him to drunkenly drop his pants in front of the entire base was missing now. There were a few faces missing, too. A few faces that would never be there again.

Suddenly the party was too stifling, every sound set his teeth on edge, his stomach churned uncomfortably each time he was offered more cake and he wanted nothing more than to just be _somewhere else_ , but he felt some obligation to stick around for morale. People seemed to find some charm in seeing the surly Commander Miller smile, so he put on a fake face for as long as his patience would permit, then politely waited until everyone was too drunk to notice him slip out and retreat to an isolated corner of the Command Platform. 

He sags against the railing now, waiting for the world to stop spinning. He'd coaxed his tenuous calm out of a flask hidden away in his coat pocket through the entirety of the party, and now it's really starting to hit him. He can feel the burn of ethanol blossoming within his chest, clawing its way up his esophagus, that constricting sensation that usually heralds the urge to vomit. He swallows it down, draws in a heavy breath. If he focuses hard enough on the horizon, it stills his swimming vision a little.

He cautiously looks up, painfully craning his neck as he searches for the moon. What time is it, even? He's not exactly in the habit of wearing a watch anymore and the multitude of floodlights are abrasive on his eyes, it's hard to find a natural source of light amidst the glare.

He shoves off of the railing in mild frustration, then makes the painful journey up the winding stairs toward the level where the breaker box is housed. It's a cumbersome journey, difficult as it is on one leg, much less under the influence. There's that distantly bitter acknowledgment that this would be a lot easier if he could still climb ladders. The exertion helps him focus, at least. He counts each _clang_ of his crutch against the steps, concentrates on the pain in his joints to keep him conscious. When he finally gets to the power grid, he braces his blunted shoulder against the box and wrestles with his crutch as he reaches his one arm up to jab his thumb into the button.

He stays there for a moment to catch his breath, listens to the electrical sigh of the lights powering down, then he hobbles his way across the catwalk and comes to lean against the railing next to one of the mortars. He looks up again and immediately finds the moon this time, full and bright, directly overhead. Without thinking, he reaches up and slides his shades off and absently drops them into his pocket. 

It's a blissful sixty seconds of isolated peace before he hears the unmistakable clink of spurs on the stairs. 

Kaz groans, briefly closes his eyes for patience, scowls out at the water as he listens to the careful, measured tempo of each footstep. Christ, even his _walk_ is smug. 

When the footsteps stop just behind him, he doesn't bother turning around. Mostly out of pride, but also because swiveling around on his one leg in his inebriated state would surely result in faceplanting into the pavement. But mostly pride.

"Setting the mood, Miller?" Ocelot asks.

Kaz can practically hear his shit-eating grin in the way he says it. Maybe it's because he's too drunk or maybe it's finally lost its novelty, but it's not quite as irritating as it used to be. Kaz has learned by now that most of Ocelot's haughtiness is just a fragile defense mechanism that isn't worth the attention.

"You looking for an offer, Ocelot?" Kaz tries to mimic Ocelot's smarm, but he can't quite get his tongue around the words and it comes out slurred and jumbled instead.

He clamps his mouth shut, resolves not to say anything else because it would probably just be embarrassing and he doesn't want to give Ocelot that power. He squints against the horizon, tries to find something to focus on, but his vision is swimming again, his eyes moving too quickly, and the vertigo hits him like a weight of bricks. He stumbles as the world pitches sideways, leaning over the railing as a cold sweat engulfs him, sagging there like a marionette without its strings. It's humiliating and undignified, but fortunately there's no one around to see besides Ocelot, and Kaz doesn't give a fuck about his opinion anyway.

He feels so miserable and weak and dizzy that he doesn't even bother shoving Ocelot's hand away when he feels it at his elbow, steadying him so he doesn't pitch over the edge. Instead he just sags against the railing, trembling hand clutching the handle of his crutch. The stars won't clear from his vision, he blinks a few times but everything is black and grey. He needs to lie down.

Ocelot tugs at his scarf and begins carefully dabbing at the sweat on Kaz's brow, his upper lip, a seemingly accidental brush against his lips. Kaz's crutch clatters to the ground as he lifts a feeble hand up to swat him away, but Ocelot firmly wraps his fingers around his wrist to stop him, gently lowers his arm back down and continues dabbing at his face. Kaz is too weak to put in any continued effort to fight, so he concedes with a contemptuous scowl.

"Fuck you, Ocelot," Kaz mutters. Everything the guy does is so _condescending_.

Ocelot exhales softly through his nose, nostrils flaring just slightly as he inspects Kaz's face, searches his eyes. "Yeah," he says softly. "Fuck me, huh?"

He turns the fabric over, slowly drags it across Kaz's lower lip, still staring him directly in the eyes like it's a challenge, like he's daring Kaz to tell him to stop. Kaz's brows furrow at the oddly tender touch and his scowl wavers, his vision has cleared enough that he can see Ocelot staring at him and it's making him uneasy.

Then the scarf is drawn away, and Kaz tenses when he feels Ocelot's hand slip into his coat. His arm jerks defensively in preparation to shove him away, but he stills when Ocelot's hand plunges innocently into the inside pocket and fishes out his flask. Kaz holds his breath, lets his arm drop awkwardly back to his side and watches Ocelot unscrew the cap and take a drink. He doesn't even flinch. He's still just _staring_.

Kaz knows what this is. Everything Ocelot does has to be a goddamn contest, it's his petulant alpha male attempt in a stale rivalry. Even this suggestive little breach of personal space under the feeble disguise of helping himself to Kaz's liquor is a transparent grasp for dominance, but Kaz is so wiped out he can't even think of an adequate response. He's having trouble focusing, the world is spinning around him and it's making him so dizzy that he might just throw up, and just before the alcohol overcomes him, he has the mortifying realization that his knees have given way and Ocelot has been propping him up this entire time. 

It feels good to close his eyes, just for a second.

When he wakes up, he doesn't recognize his surroundings. His head is still fuzzy, but he has just enough clarity to piece it together, the one place on the base he's never had any reason to go. He stares blankly at his trench coat and officer's jacket folded over the back of a chair to his left, his tie and beret sitting neatly on the seat. It takes him a moment before it registers, but then his hand comes up to grasp protectively at his chest to ensure his shirt is still there. The top buttons are undone.

He fumbles around, tries to get his elbow underneath him but misses, his coordination is completely gone. He wouldn't even have the energy to hoist himself up anyway, and just as his eyes fall helplessly on his crutch leaning within arm's reach against the bedside table, Ocelot suddenly steps into his field of vision, firmly setting a cup down next to him.  

That familiar flash of petulant anger and betrayal bubbles up inside him at the nerve of the guy - under normal circumstances, this would be the moment where he would bark something snide and threatening in Ocelot's face, but all he has the energy to do is make some muted, derisive sound that dies in his throat instead. He's in bad shape. He shouldn't have let his guard down like this, especially not with Ocelot slinking around. He eyes the cup suspiciously, then snaps a quick roll of his eyes and turns his face away. 

"Trust me, Miller, anything I'd want to do to you, I'd prefer you to be conscious for it. No purpose in drugging you. Not that it would be necessary, in your...current state."

"Why'd you bring me here, Ocelot?" he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his head back into the pillow. Closing his eyes isn't exactly comfortable at the moment - all it does is exacerbate that horrible spinning sensation that makes his stomach lurch - but his head hurts too much to keep them open. 

"Didn't figure you'd want the Boss seeing you like this." 

Kaz scoffs. Ocelot's tone is harmless, maybe even mildly sympathetic, but it feels like a snide accusation even if it is a little bit true. It takes him a moment to figure out why it's so infuriating to hear - he doesn't like Ocelot being this familiar with him, knowing him that well. He doesn't like that Ocelot might subtly use it against him.

He finds it best not to acknowledge it. Instead, he deflects. "How'd you even get me back here?"

He feels the mattress dip, his muscles tensing at Ocelot's proximity as he snaps his eyes back open. The weight shift has thrown off his equilibrium and brought on another bout of vertigo, and he lifts up a little to swallow against the rising disturbance in his throat. Ocelot's hand is instantly around the back of his neck, steadying him as the cup is pressed to his lips. His initial instinct is to cringe away, to swat the goddamn cup from his hand, but the moment the water hits his tongue, it's too refreshing to refuse. It helps to abate the nausea, at least.

"Not so heavy anymore," Ocelot answers with a shrug. 

Something sharp and bitter slices through him, a bevy of indescribable emotions all tangled together that creates a yawning hollowness in his chest, and it makes his stomach churn even more. Humiliation that someone else might have seen. Horror that he allowed Ocelot that small display of dominance. Anger that Ocelot had the nerve to take that initiative. Disappointment in his own weakness, the heart-sinking reminder of his missing parts. 

But ultimately, _familiarity_. 

He'd said those exact words to Snake when he was at his most vulnerable, and knowing that Ocelot had been listening in on such a private moment, that he's now... _appropriating_ it in such a way, feels almost vulgar. 

But something in the way Ocelot said it dissolves his rising indignation - it wasn't mocking or condescending, but distressingly tender. _Compassionate_ , even. There's this disorienting moment where Kaz forgets where and when he is - they've been here before. 

Kaz remembers it clearly, a jarring flash of déjà vu from their time together before Snake woke up - his head clouded and his body weak, a cup of water pressed to his lips as he sagged in Ocelot's grip. He remembers the crawling sting of the marks on his ass from the riding crop, and the memory is so vivid that he actually jolts on the spot, shifting a little to alleviate the phantom sensations. The moment is replicated almost exactly - right down to Ocelot's scent still lingering in his nose from the scarf used to dry his face. 

Their strange little arrangement had promptly ended the moment Boss returned to Mother Base. They never spoke of it. It was almost as though it had never happened.

But even through the fog of intoxication, Kaz still has enough resources to understand that nothing Ocelot does is anything short of deliberate. Where Kaz had put the entire thing out of his mind, Ocelot seems to want to revisit it for his own amusement. Perhaps it wouldn't be quite as disturbing if he wasn't so uncharacteristically timid about it with his fleeting, gentle touches, from the way he taps Kaz's chin with his finger after he sets the cup down to the delicate hand on his shoulder easing him back against the pillow. 

Admittedly it makes him a little nervous, has his heart thrumming erratically against his rib cage, the throbbing in his ears drowning out any other sound, his head swimming from the rush of adrenaline as the panic starts to swell. Then there's the scarf again, soft fabric patting at his face, overwhelming him with Ocelot's scent, and he closes his eyes again but he's sure he feels Ocelot's fingers gripping his thigh, a little too high for comfort. He doesn't want to fall asleep here, but he can feel it coming, the black seeping into his senses like tar engulfing him whole, pulling him under. 

Then those fingers are in his hair, dancing at his temple to smooth it away from his face, sifting through the mess left by his beret, combing it with long, careful sweeps. He hates it, hates the way those fingers against his scalp make him tremble, hates the way Ocelot is clearly taking advantage of his inability to really resist.

"You know, we met once before. Before Eritrea," Ocelot says quietly. His fingers are still combing through Kaz's hair, soft and delicate, it almost seems a little condescending, placating. Like he's pacifying a child.

Kaz cracks his eyes open, his heart giving another jolt, but the alcohol is still swimming through his veins, dulling his senses. He can't do much more than puzzle at him through weary eyes. 

"I had to see him, you know. Too much history between us, for him to just leave like that. It didn't feel right. I'd heard about his new outfit in the Caribbean. Had to see it for myself. So I disguised myself as one of the MSF soldiers and slipped into the camp you'd temporarily set up in some shithole in Panama."

Kaz holds his breath. He's clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw is beginning to hurt, and he weakly twists his head away from Ocelot's obnoxious petting. He relents for precisely three seconds before his fingers are dragging down his neck, hooking into Kaz's collar and folding it back so he can trace his collarbone.

"I didn't know what to expect. Figured I'd find him with a band of deserters and failed cops, perhaps nursing a midlife crisis that I could pull him out of." He pauses, laughs to himself. "Yeah, it's stupid, isn't it? I was still young then. Thought pretty highly of myself."

Kaz almost says _More than you do now?_ but the words never leave him, he's still holding his breath, can't even fill his lungs enough to get a single word out. If this is an elaborate lie, he can't think of a purpose for it. He's so captivated that he doesn't immediately realize that Ocelot's fingers have traveled down his chest, are now carefully unfastening the rest of his buttons.

"But you know what I found instead? _You_. Him, and you. Working and laughing together and finishing each other's ideas like you'd known each other for ages. Sharing this... _thing_ that I might never have coaxed out of him as hard as I tried. It's like...he'd never known me. It's clear he wasn't thinking of me. ...But the most profound part of it all was how hard I tried to despise you for it. I watched you for a while, tried to root out the obvious scam behind why some amateur merc arbitrarily shoehorned into John's life might have had such an effect...but in the end all I learned was precisely why he fought so hard to keep you."

Kaz's lungs hurt. He takes a breath. It's short and unsatisfying, makes his head feel like a balloon. Ocelot's hands are working down his front, tucking his shirt open, fiddling with his belt. He doesn't fight it. He's trembling and his heart is still pounding, but he doesn't have the energy to tell him to stop. 

"I must admit, you were captivating. Had that natural charisma I imagine must have been necessary to survive in the world you were born into. I took a bold risk - got your attention, I just wanted to interact with you, talk to you just once. Even showed you my face. You didn't even look at me. You were short with me, annoyed. You seemed a little preoccupied, lost in your head. Figured that was the best I was ever gonna get from you. Guess I wasn't entirely wrong, was I?"

Kaz takes in another stuttering breath, his hand defensively coming up when Ocelot starts teasing his pants open. It's such a feeble gesture that it takes no effort for Ocelot to intercept him by the wrist and guide his arm back down. He really just wants to sleep. The nausea is gone, and the violent spinning has mellowed to a gentle floating, so he just resigns to riding it out. He's vaguely aware of his shoes being removed, pants tugged down his thighs, his prosthetic being unstrapped. An embarrassing sound escapes him when Ocelot rubs his fingers into his irritated skin, massaging the circulation back into his muscles, tracing the grooves left by the straps. 

It's not fair. He can't let Ocelot have this, this _victory_. 

"I told Snake," Kaz rasps, his stamina is so shot that it's all but a wheeze. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, gets another breath in him. "About us, before he woke up. I told him."

Ocelot's careful massaging slows to a stop, his fingers pausing on Kaz's stump for just a beat. But then he calmly continues, fingers idly moving farther up his leg. "I imagine he must have been angry. Heard stories of his reactions when you were caught traipsing around."

Now it's Kaz's turn to laugh. He's aware of this one thing he has over Ocelot, this _one thing_ he knows that Ocelot seemingly doesn't. "It would seem he's changed. Said he wouldn't feel right holding me accountable for anything that happened while he was out."

Ocelot's fingers pause again, just above Kaz's knee. "That sounds incredibly unlike him," he muses. 

Kaz smirks, his eyes are still closed but he can feel Ocelot inspecting his face. "Doesn't it, though?" he says cryptically. 

He feels Ocelot tense above him, a sudden rigidity in the way the mattress moves under them, and Ocelot abandons his teasing of Kaz's leg and hooks his fingers into his briefs, yanking them down over his thighs in mild frustration. It's a small victory just getting a subtle emotional response out of him, and Kaz is mildly surprised to find himself half erect, especially considering how loaded he is. 

He's already slipping under when Ocelot begins palming him, stroking him to a full erection. He makes drowsy efforts to thrust his hips up into Ocelot's hand, but finds himself blinking out of consciousness too easily. It's with a hoarse yelp that he's startled awake by the sharp pinch of teeth in his stomach, a cruel nip that will certainly leave a noticeable mark for days. His hand flies to the back of Ocelot's head, fingers weaving into his hair until he's gripping him almost painfully. Warm lips press against the throbbing pain of the bite, followed by a moist flick of his tongue. Another possessive kiss is placed just below his navel, and then Ocelot's mouth is too close, _too close,_  he wouldn't _dare_ \- but then Kaz is making that embarrassing sound again when moist heat gusts across his cock, tongue slicking along the underside of it and lapping at his balls with such deliberate slowness that it seems almost loving. 

He feels himself say the word, works his tongue around it, breathes a futile ' _No'_ that Ocelot unsurprisingly ignores. Teasing kisses warm the tender flesh down there, then the heat engulfs him as Ocelot takes his balls into his mouth. Kaz's repeated ' _No'_ is punctuated by a breathy ' _Fuck_.' It sounds weak and unconvincing. His legs helplessly fall open, his fingers loosening in Ocelot's hair as he just gives in to it.  

"You gonna tell the Boss about this, then?" Ocelot mumbles against him, and the vibration caused by his voice makes Kaz shudder. 

Ocelot pushes his hands against the insides of his thighs, spreading him wider, digs his fingers into his flesh with enough pressure to bruise. Kaz knows it's intentional, Ocelot's possessive game of leaving marks. It was never about sex for him, but about power. It's why he wielded the crop so well. Kaz wonders what became of it, if Ocelot kept the thing, if it's stashed somewhere in this room. 

There's another sharp pinch of teeth, high on the inside of his thigh this time. Ocelot is merciless, grinds his teeth into Kaz's flesh with enough force to draw blood, and it coaxes a whimper and a squirm out of him when he starts to suck. The bite throbs with each heavy pound of his heart, causes his dick to jump, and when he idly reaches for it, Ocelot slaps his hand away. Of course. He's not allowed to touch himself. He will receive pleasure when Ocelot decides to give it. 

Kaz moans a petulant, bratty sound, impatient and needy. Ocelot's mouth brushes over his dick just enough to make his hips jump, but he goes back to nipping his teeth around Kaz's navel, leaving painful marks in his stomach, worrying the flesh between his teeth to make it bruise. The pain keeps him just conscious enough to appreciate what's being done to him, but he's too drunk to really do anything about it, much less resist. Teeth sink into his hipbone, it _hurts_ , it's cruel and unrelenting, and Kaz makes a strangled sound as his hand flies to the back of Ocelot's head again. 

"Please," he gasps. 

"Something specific you needed, Miller?" There it is, finally - that condescending, haughty tone. It sounds strangely like a challenge. 

The drowsiness washes over him again, he's sinking into the void, the weight shift of Ocelot moving over him throws him back into that dizzy vertigo, but the pinch of teeth comes again, a crescent marked around his left nipple. It jolts him back and he thinks he says it again, some slurred combination of ' _Please_ ' and ' _No_ ,' but then Ocelot is kissing the sore spot, sucking gently at his tortured nipple and Kaz gives up trying to put up a fight.

"Do you want it to stop?" he asks. It still sounds so much like a challenge. 

The bites are merciless, he already feels bruised all over, but his dick is so hard and the pain coupled with the drowsiness makes him feel so vulnerable and needy, it has his body hypersensitive to every touch. He doesn't want it to stop, not really. He doesn't want to give Ocelot this power, but he doesn't want it to stop. He intends to take advantage of the situation as much as Ocelot does.

"Our sessions always made you so gentle, didn't they?" Ocelot says. "Always got you to calm right down. Docile is a good look for you. I have to admit, I miss it a little. You were a lot less of a royal pain in the ass back then." 

The bed shifts beneath him again, his legs are spread wider, _god_ , it's so undignified and humiliating, letting himself be plied and manipulated like some doll. He wishes he could react more, but he's so tired, he just wants to sleep. Some part of him hopes that if he just silently complies, Ocelot will let him rest peacefully, and it'll save him the shame of the Boss seeing him like this, useless and sloppy. 

Playful lips are lighting along his cock again, soft as moth wings, and when Kaz lifts his hips up into it, curious fingers begin probing at his hole. Kaz's hand reflexively reaches down to protect himself, but Ocelot effortlessly deflects again, a firm hand around his wrist, shoving his arm away with slightly more force than necessary. A warning, almost.

Kaz is panting, his entire body trembling, he doesn't trust Ocelot for a second. Would he even stop if Kaz passed out? Hard to tell. Insistent fingertips are pressing into him, imploring, massaging against his opening as his other hand comes up, thumb cruelly grazing over the sore bite mark on his belly. Kaz hisses through his teeth, whimpers a little, and Ocelot swipes his fingernails over the wound, drawing another groan and a squirm out of him. He knows Ocelot's just using pain response to keep him conscious, to at least give it the illusion of fairness, to maintain the satisfaction of watching his reactions. It's rather clever, really. He approaches sex with the technique of a torturer.

The hands leave his body for a moment, and then the fingers return to his hole again, slick and cool with lube, and Kaz jumps at the contact. Ocelot brings a firm hand down on his hip, pins him down, continues circling his fingertip around the rim, pushing gently inside. His dick is so neglected, he just needs a little contact, his fingers twitch spasmodically with the temptation to just brush his palm over himself. 

"Fuck," he groans through clenched teeth, arcing his hips up as that finger sinks into him to the knuckle. 

"Something you need, Miller?" he repeats.

"My dick," he gasps. "Touch my dick." Somehow he finds a way to invoke the assertive edge of his commander's voice, an instinctual habit he can never really break. He feels Ocelot tense at it, a slight pause, but then that finger continues pumping in and out of him, teasing him, ignoring his request. 

"No," he answers curtly.

The finger slowly draws out of him and then two are pushed back in, twisting into him, beckoning inside so that Kaz's hips jolt against Ocelot's restraining palm. 

"I know you can come from just this," he muses. "I've seen it."

There's the sinking chill of disappointment, he has to make a conscious effort not to whine. Of course Ocelot wouldn't give him what he wants. That would be uncharacteristic. The fingers in him twist and beckon, gesturing inside him and manipulating him like a puppet, and Kaz obediently writhes and twitches for him, rolls his hips in a desperate attempt to get those fingers exactly where he wants them. He risks a glance up at Ocelot through bleary, heavy-lidded eyes, and can just make out the bulge straining in his pants, painfully contained and dutifully ignored. He feels this strange obligation to reach out and touch, to reciprocate, but he knows Ocelot wouldn't allow it. His own cock is leaking onto his belly, pulsing with each pump of the fingers stroking his insides, and then they hook inside him, hit him just right, and he didn't want it to be so abrupt and undignified like this, but he can't help it, his cock is spurting onto his stomach, messy and uncontrolled. A vulgar grunt rasps out of him and he rolls his hips into it before going limp, his body too weak and spent to properly ride it out. It almost feels a little wasteful.

Then there's the surprising touch of moist heat on his belly, the shocking realization that Ocelot is cleaning him off with his tongue. He laps at him gently, tickling his belly to get one last squirm out of him, and he doesn't realize he's brought his hand to the back of Ocelot's head, doesn't realize he's idly stroking his hair. It feels good. It's blissful and a little depraved, the way Ocelot's tongue spears into his navel, thoroughly licking him clean like the good kitten he is. It's an odd little sensation, the way this neglected part of his body seems to be connected directly to his dick, sending a brief shock of stimulation straight through his groin. 

Ocelot moves over him, grips his jaw with a firm hand and turns his face up. "Open," he commands, his voice husky and low. Kaz obeys without thinking, a conditioned response from months past that he apparently never broke out of. It's too easy to fall back into old habits, too easy to pretend this is still a thing they do regularly.

The kiss is familiar, possessive and demanding. Like Ocelot knows he probably won't ever get the opportunity to do this again, so he's making the most of it by claiming him, trying to bruise his lips like he's bruised the rest of his body. Like he knows they don't have ground rules anymore so he can break them all he wants. Kaz tastes himself on Ocelot's tongue and it's a little invigorating, a little obscene. He just lets it happen, loosens his jaw and takes it, even kisses back a little when Ocelot works his tongue against his, really makes him taste himself. He can't really breathe and it's pushing him closer to the brink of unconsciousness, he won't be able to stay awake much longer. Ocelot breaks away, leans in to place one last possessive bite on his neck. It's lighter, fleeting, this one won't leave a mark. It almost feels like a tender parting gift.

"How old are you now, anyway?" he says after a short silence.

"The flying shit do you care?" Kaz mumbles. It's an annoying question, not only because he really doesn't like acknowledging his age, but because it's something Ocelot should already know.

"Just wanted to know how many strokes of the crop I'll be giving you when you've got your wits about you to take it."

His heart gives an uncomfortable little jolt, he's so goddamn spent and exhausted, but the threat spikes straight through his dick all the same. Is he even serious? Kaz doesn't have the energy to dwell on it - he's already sinking into a blissful whiskey coma, he'll worry about it later. Just before he drops off, he hears it, so distant and soft that he can't be entirely sure it's real - 

"Happy birthday, Kaz."

**Author's Note:**

> [( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)](http://saintambrose.tumblr.com/)


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